The Edge of Light (12 page)

These, then, were the kinds of men who had defended Wessex from the Danes for the past fifty years. The defense had in general been successful. Because the fyrds were local, they had the advantage of being able to gather quickly, and over the years, because the same men answered the call time and again, the thanes, ceorls, and townsmen who formed the shire militias had turned into decently equipped and experienced men-at-arms.

So in March, when the fyrds of Wessex mustered in response to their ealdormen’s summonses, these were the men who gathered to march to Nottingham. There was not a man present, however, who did not realize that the army that awaited them in Nottingham was of a very different caliber from the raiding parties they had encountered in the past.

It was a hard time of year to take a farmer from his land, Alfred thought as the massed fyrds of Wessex moved slowly along the old Roman road known as the Fosse Way, north into Mercia. There were some four thousand men marching along this most westerly of all the great Roman roads this day, and most of them, shire thanes and ceorls, were landowners whose fields were in need of the plow if seed were to be sown this spring. It was going to be possible to keep together an army of this size only for a relatively brief period of time.

This was a thought that had been troubling Alfred for the last six weeks. The West Saxon men were mainly farmers who were used to scattering immediately after a fight to return to their homes and their fields and their animals. The Danes, on the other hand, were a professional army, joined together in the name of conquest, and living off the fruits of their plunder. The Danes would not scatter after a battle, of that Alfred was quite certain.

We must defeat them at Nottingham, he thought, and not for the first time. Alfred’s stallion arched his gleaming chestnut neck in the chill damp air and snorted at the slow pace he was being forced to keep. The king’s companions and the ealdormen were all mounted, but most of the men of the West Saxon fyrds were on foot, and the pace was suited to them and to the supply wagons drawn by slow-moving oxen.

It took a week to march from Chippenham, where they had mustered, to Tamworth. At Tamworth the fyrds of Wessex joined up with the Mercian army, and from thence they moved together to Nottingham, where they massed on the right bank of the Trent and looked across the river at high cliffs lined with the flashing arms of Danish warriors. Unlike the Northumbrians, Burgred and Ethelred had not been lucky enough to catch the Danes outside their fortifications.

The Danish fortifications at Nottingham were formidable indeed. The Viking army had thrown up earthworks on all sides of Nottingham that were not protected by the river and the cliffs, and though they were outnumbered by the combined Mercian and West Saxon force, the Danes remained snug and safe within their barriers and showed no signs of issuing forth for battle.

The days went by. Alfred could see signs of restlessness growing among the fyrds. The weather was warming. At home the heifers and cows would be calving and work in the dairy would be under way. The pigs too would have littered, and as men clustered around their cook fires at Nottingham, eating their army rations, visions of roast suckling pig were dancing in more minds than one.

They could not afford to sit here on the riverbank and do nothing!

“What can we do?” Ethelred asked reasonably when Alfred expressed this thought to him for perhaps the dozenth time in one day. “It would be folly to attack the camp. You heard what happened to the Northumbrians once they got within the walls of York. If we are to fight the Danes, it must be out in the open.”

“But they are not coming out in the open, Ethelred!” Alfred’s voice was harsh with frustration.

“They will when they get hungry enough,” came Ethelred’s placid reply.

“By the time they are hungry enough, all our men will have gone home,” said Alfred. And that evening he took a picked band of his own companions and rode south along the Trent to spy out the possibilities of crossing the river somewhere north of Repton.

“If we can get a party of men across to surprise the Danes from the south, then perhaps the rest of the army can successfully attack from the west,” Alfred explained to Edgar, the young thane who was one of those companions closest to him.

“It is worth a try, my lord,” Edgar replied promptly. Like Alfred, Edgar was young and frustrated by the inaction of the last two weeks.

Ten of them stole out of camp in the dark that night. Alfred had not told even Ethelred of his plans. To Alfred’s disappointment, Ethelred had been deferring to Burgred’s leadership ever since the armies of Wessex and Mercia had first merged. Alfred could understand Ethelred’s reasoning, could even see some sense in it. As his one conversation with Athulf had shown him, the Mercians were extremely sensitive about Wessex’ past overlordship. Still the fact remained that Burgred was too timid and indecisive to ever prove an effective leader. It was best, Alfred decided, to take action on his own authority.

The thanes who followed Alfred that night were all young, and could easily be distinguished as belonging to the prince by the headband all wore bound around their brows. It had become the fashion of late among Alfred’s men, particularly the younger ones, to copy the prince’s style. His men were all clean-shaven also, although Alfred’s face was smooth because his beard had yet to grow and not because of any razor.

They moved carefully, keeping as much as possible within the trees to avoid being spied by the Danes on the other side of the river. The night was moonless, but the faint starlight gave them enough light to see their way. By daylight all but two of them had returned to the Saxon camp, with neither king realizing they had been gone. Edgar and his fellow companion, Brand, returned by noon, after verifying with the local folk that there was indeed a ford across the river at Willowburg. Then Alfred went to see Ethelred and Burgred.

Burgred would not hear of an attempt on the Danish camp. “The Northumbrians were slaughtered when they met with the Danes within the walls of York,” he said stubbornly to Alfred. “We must fight in the open if we are to have a hope of victory.”

“But they will not come out into the open, my lord,” Alfred strove to keep his voice patient. The April sky was deeply blue, with high white clouds sailing across the Danish camp, so tantalizingly close on the far side of the river. “They know we outnumber them,” Alfred went on. “They will keep within the safety of Nottingham unless we force battle upon them. And there is this ford—”

“No,” said Burgred. Then, to Ethelred: “He should not have left camp without my permission.”

Ethelred’s brown eyes were clouded. He looked worriedly from Burgred to Alfred, “If we hold siege long enough,” he said to his brother, “they will have to come out for food.”

Alfred turned his impatient gaze to Ethelred. “The fyrds will never be able to hold siege for any length of time,” he said. “Even now the shire thanes and ceorls are longing to be home. And we do not have enough men with just the hearthbands. We must have the farmers as well. You know that, Ethelred, as well as I.”

Burgred drew his bulk up to its considerable height. “I am the leader of this army, Prince,” he said to Alfred, looking down his broad fleshy nose. “You would do well to remember that.”

“Alfred does not mean to be importunate,” Ethelred said.

“He is more than importunate, He is impertinent,” returned Burgred. “You have ever given too much heed to so young a boy, my brother. In consequence, he has too little regard for age and experience.” And with these parting remarks, Burgred turned his back on the two West Saxons and lumbered away with dignity in the direction of his tent.

Ethelred looked at Alfred. His brother’s young face was not wearing any of the expressions that Ethelred had expected to see. Alfred did not look angry or humiliated or contemptuous. Instead his eyes were cold, level, and implacably stern. He said to Ethelred, very quietly, “Burgred is making a terrible mistake.”

“Perhaps,” Ethelred returned. “But I cannot overrule him, Alfred. The Mercians will not follow me if their own king is against me. And the West Saxons are not strong enough to storm Nottingham alone. We have no choice but to hold siege for as long as we can, and hope for the best.”

And so they waited. And while they waited the men of Wessex and of Mercia began to melt away. Few could see the point of sitting day after day on the banks of the Trent when there were more important things to be done at home. The shire thanes fretted that shepherds, cowherds, goatherds, and swineherds would not be properly attending to their business in the absence of their lords. The ceorls felt their absences from home even more urgently than did the shire thanes. What work was done about the farm of a ceorl was usually done by the owner; if he was not home in the spring, it would be a hungry winter the following year.

By the end of April the combined armies of Wessex and Mercia had lost over three thousand men.

“I shall sue for peace,” Burgred said. And Ethelred agreed. There was nothing else to do, he said to Alfred, considering the depleted state of the Saxon armies.

The peace was negotiated by Burgred’s representative, Edred. Ealdorman of the Tomsaetan. Ivar the Boneless drove a hard bargain. In order for him to leave Mercia, he demanded that Burgred pay him five thousand pounds in geld.

Alfred was livid when he realized that Burgred was going to agree to the terms.

“Where is the Mercian witan?” he stormed to Athulf. He had sought out the young ealdorman as soon as Alfred understood that his arguments would not persuade Burgred to reject the Viking demand.

Athulf’s thin dark face was grim. “The witan agreed with the king,” he answered tightly. “They want to buy the Danes off.”

Alfred, who rarely swore, did so now. Athulf s mouth was thin as a sword blade. “I agree, Prince, I think we are making a grave mistake. But the king will not listen. He is … he is …”

“He is afraid,” Alfred said.

There was a reverberating silence. Then Athulf let out his breath. “Aelle died hard,” he said. “One cannot blame him, I suppose.”

“Burgred is a king.” Alfred’s eyes were burning gold. “His thought should not be for his own safety but for his people and his God.” The two young men were standing on the edge of the Trent, and now Alfred turned his face toward the rock of Nottingham, lying on the far side of the river,
“Now
is the time, Athulf!” His fists opened and closed at his sides. “God and all his saints, we
have
them! And instead, Burgred is paying them to go away.”

“I said that to the witan, Prince.” Athulf sounded more weary than angry.

“And the other ealdormen?”

“They agreed with Burgred.” Athulf also stared toward Nottingham. “Mercia has never fought the Danes,” he said then, his voice almost toneless. “We have no borders on the sea. The sight of Nottingham’s fortifications frightened more men than Burgred, Prince. Nor is the fright unjustified. Our troops are raw and untrained. We are no match for the Danes.”

“You have four thousand West Saxons to fight by your side,” Alfred said.

“We are losing men daily. You know that.”

“We are losing men because of our inaction!” Alfred was frustrated and furious.

A muscle in Athulf’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.

“Prince … my lord Athulf…” A voice from behind caused both young men to turn in haste, neither wishing their words to be overheard by other ears. A youngster of about fourteen stood there, hesitant but with a look about his mouth that said he would not easily be dislodged. “Is it true?” he asked, looking from Athulf to Alfred, then back again to Athulf. “Is the king going to pay the geld?”

Athulf did not dismiss the boy, but instead answered him. “Yes, Ethelred. I am afraid it is true.”

The boy’s hazel eyes flared very green. “But he cannot!”

Athulf glanced at Alfred, then said to the boy, his voice very flat, “He can.”

“But …” The ardent green eyes turned again to Alfred. “What do the West Saxons say, my lord?”

Alfred looked at Athulf. “This is Ethelred of Hwicce,” Athulf said. “The brother of my promised wife. His father is one of our ealdormen.”

Alfred raised his brows in recognition. Then he looked back at the boy. Ethelred was a stocky youngster, with reddish hair and very fair, almost milky-white skin. “You are young to be bearing arms,” Alfred said.

“I am fourteen, my lord.” He raised his chin proudly: “I can wield my sword as well as any man.”

“I see.” Alfred’s eyes were level as they watched the boy’s face. He answered Ethelred’s question: “The West Saxons must bow to the decision of Mercia.”

A fiery flush stained the boy’s milky skin. You are wrong!” he cried passionately. He bit his already-chapped lower lip: “I beg pardon, my lord, I do not mean to criticize, but do you not see that we must fight?”

Alfred’s skin, tanned a deeper gold than usual by the sun, also flushed with emotion. “Yes, Lord Ethelred,” he answered, “I do see. It is your countrymen who do not. Speak to your father. He is one of those in favor of peace.”

Alfred’s crisp voice was even more stinging than his words, and the boy’s skin paled again. “I know that.” Ethelred’s voice was choked. “I hoped that the West Saxons would feel otherwise.”

“The West Saxons cannot attack without the assistance of Mercia,” came the chill reply. “And I do not think that the Mercian fyrds would follow the King of Wessex against the wishes of their own leaders.” Alfred’s face made it clear that this was a fact he deeply regretted.

Now Athulf’s dark skin flushed with anger. “Mercia has its own king, my lord, and it is he who commands our allegiance.”

“You have made that perfectly clear,” Alfred snapped.

Ethelred looked from the fine-featured face of the West Saxon prince to the imperious and furious face of his future brother. He once more bit his maltreated lip. Then, uneasily: “I thank you, my lords. I did not mean to interrupt your speech.” He looked from Alfred to Athulf once more, bowed, and began to walk away.

Alfred said to Athulf, “If the Mercian witan had half the mettle of that boy, we should be in Nottingham tomorrow.”